


petal by petal

by wintersrose616



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Eventual Romance, Hanahaki Disease, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), not the usual confess or die kind but there's still flowers that get coughed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22810861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersrose616/pseuds/wintersrose616
Summary: The brief coughing fit does nothing to garner the boar's attention, which is for the best, Felix decides. The pale petals fall to the ground and he lets them, watching them flutter. Delicate, white petals, sometimes tinted pink from the blood that gets caught on them when he’s tried to swallow them back down one too many times.Once, he thought they might have been daisy petals. He knows better now.With disdain and the taste of chamomile curling his lip, he crushes them under the heel of his boot, anyway, grinding them to dust on the cathedral floor..Felix suffers from what the Church of Seiros calls theBlooming Cough. He refuses to think about what it implies about his emotions regarding the Crown Prince of Faerghus.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 18
Kudos: 222





	petal by petal

**Author's Note:**

> so instead of the usual hanahaki disease where if their feelings aren’t requited the person who’s sick dies, we’re treating this more like chronic bronchitis, where you get a few really rough weeks when spring first shows up where you cough up petals and are just entirely inconvenienced instead of, y’know, being terminal. I just feel like that way it’s better than “you have to love me back or else I’ll die.”
> 
> and tbh I just think Felix deciding to suffer through coughing up petals for a bit every year instead of admitting to anyone else he might have feelings for Dimitri is more fitting, but that could just be me.
> 
> also apologies if the pacing seems off, i was trying to mash nine years into one go instead of adding a thousand breaks.

The first time Felix coughs up petals, he’s just returned from the western rebellion. He spends the afternoon holed up in his room, coughing every few moments. It’s only a couple petals, at first. They’re small. Delicate, white, and fragile. They fall to pieces between his fingertips and he does all he can to hide that he’s been coughing them up.

It, of course, doesn’t take long for his father to figure things out. Felix was certain he would be too busy spending too much time on Dimitri, but he _notices_ because Felix is all but bedridden for two weeks, hacking petal after petal into a small basket at his bedside.

His father, of course, is useless in providing any information Felix doesn’t already know. There were different types of it—some fatal, some seasonal, some that just went away on their own. The disease is called the _Blooming Cough_. It goes by other names in the East, names that Felix would probably tolerate a lot more than something the church had named it, but it is what it is. Ingrid had read stories that made the disease seem _romantic_. Felix didn’t buy that for a second, even before he came down with it. Coughing up flowers while you pine after someone wasn’t something beautiful, or idyllically tragic. It could only be called romantic for someone who didn’t have to go through it. 

That first year, Felix thinks it has to be a random happenstance. The only one he yearns for is Dimitri—and not the beast he had met in the west. He misses the Dimitri he had known before Duscur, before Glenn’s death, before they were thrust into the thick of Faerghus tradition of fight, fight, _fight_ , wrapped up under the idealization of knighthood.

The first time lasts two weeks at the beginning of spring. When he wakes up and can breathe deeply without doubling over coughing, he declares himself cured. He throws himself into his training, avoiding his father, and decides to forget all about it.

That is, until the next spring comes, and the Goddess’ joke renews itself.

Felix spends the first few years deciding it couldn’t possibly be something he can be cured of. The person he loves is dead, replaced with a boar wearing a prince’s mask. He’s just gotten out of the coughing spree when they arrive at Garreg Mach and he sees Dimitri again. The white petals that had spilled from his lungs weeks prior hold nothing to the disdain and disgust he feels upon seeing how Ingrid and Sylvain interact with the prince.

When Dimitri turns his smile to Felix on that first day at the monastery, all Felix can do is scoff and go hunt down the training grounds.

Despite everything that transpires during it, his year at Garreg Mach went smoothly in terms of the petals. None of his friends knew he suffered every spring. He didn’t have to deal with Sylvain insufferably teasing him, or Ingrid offering unwanted lectures about how dangerous it could be. He refused to even let the professor know.

When spring does roll around, and Edelgard decides to declare war against the church, everyone else is too preoccupied with that to notice Felix coughing a bit more than normal.

He spends the first few months after the fall of the monastery in Fraldarius territory, helping his father with the ordeal of gathering troops to send to the western border. It’s in the middle of the Garland Moon that they receive the news.

Dimitri, arrested, accused of murdering his uncle.

Four moons later, after many attempts by his father for the prince’s release, Dimitri is executed.

Felix decides then that it will be the end. He throws himself into the war, doing his best to keep himself distracted from his grief.

Sylvain is the first one outside of his father to know of the disease.

He thinks nothing of it when spring comes after Dimitri’s execution. They’re in the midst of a war. The boar is dead. There’s nothing that can be done about it besides stopping Edelgard and her army so that his soul can rest. He knows it’ll be the first time in years the spring comes that he won’t be coughing petals, and he can’t bring himself to feel the joy in that.

His father summons him late one night. They’re in a camp alongside the border of former Blaiddyd territory. He has a message. Margrave Gautier has _implied_ help from Fraldarius would be well-received, which meant he needed help but was too stubborn to ask. Felix goes, with Fraldarius soldiers, and is greeted by a tired Sylvain.

They’ve spoken very little since Dimitri’s execution. Most of the letters he’s received from Sylvain have been read, but not responded to. Sylvain, always good-natured, always too-forgiving, laughs it off when Felix apologises.

“I think we both have been a bit busy, Fe,” he says, with a wink, and Felix cannot muster anything other than muted relief that he isn’t outright angry.

They’ve only been reunited for an hour when a familiar tickle slithers up from his lungs. Felix coughs, and _coughs_ , and when he pulls his hand away from his mouth, he’s horrified to see a familiar petal in his grasp.

 _Sylvain_ is horrified.

“Felix, we’ve got a healer, we can—”

“No!” His voice comes out harsh, as raspy as it is. Felix’s hand is trembling as he stares at the petal. “No, I don’t need—.” He stops. Clears his throat. Almost chokes on a new petal that gets lodged in his throat. He crushes both in his hands, watching them fall to the ground beneath their feet. “I don’t need a healer.”

Sylvain is, reasonably, if annoyingly, skeptical. “Are you sure?”

“I get—.” He makes a noise of frustration, crossing his arms, avoiding the feel of Sylvain’s concerned stare. “It’s yearly.”

“ _Yearly?_ How long have you had it?”

Felix glances over. There’s only concern in his face, none of the usual teasing he was certain he’d get.

“Since I was fifteen,” Felix states, bitter, and turns away again. In a softer voice, he admits, “I thought it would end after last year’s.”

“What? What’s changed since—?” Sylvain stops short. “Oh. _Oh._ Felix.”

His hand comes down on Felix’s shoulder. Paired with the emotion in his voice, it just makes Felix angry. He shrugs him off. “It doesn’t matter. We all lost him. I just—. I thought it would be over.”

“Felix. . .”

“It’s fine,” he snaps. “I’m fine. Just. . .forget about it, okay? There’s nothing I could do even if I wanted to.”

Sylvain stares at him for a long moment. “Just don’t do something stupid, alright?”

“I’m not you,” Felix grumbles, no true heat behind his words.

“I know.” Sylvain takes the jab in stride. “But remember our promise, okay?”

Felix huffs. “I remember. Don’t worry.”

Dimitri is dead. Felix is alive. 

He is alive. Doomed to spend the rest of his days coughing up petals for a ghost, but alive. 

**.**

The war progresses.

They hear rumours, send tracking parties out, all on the search for the bloodthirsty warrior that roamed Faerghus. None of them, not even Felix, get close enough to him to figure out if it's their dead prince or not.

He answers Sylvain’s letters, responds to Ingrid’s inquiries on if he’s okay, fights alongside men and women in terrain he’s been raised to defend since birth.

In Imperial Year 1185, Felix finds his ghost.

He returns to the monastery alongside Ingrid and Sylvain, readying to make a quick sweep of the grounds before seeing if any of their old classmates have returned for a promise they made five years before. Felix assumes they’ll run into a couple thieves, but that will be it. 

What they come across is a mess of battle, a beast in a furred cloak, and their professor returned from the dead.

It gets worse, before it gets better. The Dimitri that returns to them is not the Dimitri any of them truly knew. Felix has never been more upset to be proved right. The boar prince is nothing more than a bloodthirsty monster, hellbent on getting revenge for voices only he could hear.

Felix watches him, as he paces through the cathedral, muttering to himself, or to his hallucinations. Felix isn’t certain, knows he won’t get an answer even if he demands one. He stands further back in the shadow of a column, arms crossed, eyes boring holes into whatever is left of his former best friend. He does his best to stifle his throat spasms, the petals forcing their way up despite his best efforts.

The brief coughing fit does nothing to garner the boar's attention, which is for the best, Felix decides. The pale petals fall to the ground and he lets them, watching them flutter. Delicate, white petals, sometimes tinted pink from the blood that gets caught on them when he’s tried to swallow them back down one too many times.

Once, he thought they might have been daisy petals. He knows better now.

With disdain and the taste of chamomile curling his lip, he crushes them under the heel of his boot, anyway, grinding them to dust on the cathedral floor. 

It gets far worse, before it gets better. His father dies, Dimitri returns to them—all of him, this time—they free Fhirdiad, save Derdriu, end the war. His father is still dead, his uncle running the estate as Felix helps his newly found king prepare for a nation that was once three.

The others help. Sylvain seems to spend most of his time forcing Dimitri and Felix together, as if Felix is not Duke Fraldarius, and one of the king’s trusted advisors. Their friendship is mending, slowly, but Felix knows it doesn’t matter.

What he wants is selfish, and what _he_ wants doesn’t matter.

The coronation comes and goes. Sylvain and his meddling leave to return to Gautier, to handle some business with the Margrave, while Felix stays in Fhirdiad.

The winter after Dimitri’s coronation, Felix turns twenty-four.

It is not a grandiose affair. They are too busy for anything more than Annette and Mercedes making him not-sweet pastries, and a few gifts from the others that are still in the capital. Sylvain sends him a letter wishing him well, and a promise for birthday kisses the next time in Fhirdiad. Felix makes sure to remember he needs to smack him upon his return. 

Dimitri gifts him a sword. 

Felix scoffs over the intricate design of the hilt, but he accepts it with a muttered thanks. It’s a good weapon, despite the unnecessary adornments. He’s looking forward to training with it.

He tries to ignore the way Dimitri’s smile when he tells him as such makes his heart ache. 

A month later, the Margrave grows sick of his son. Sylvain returns to Fhirdiad in the midst of the Lone Tree Moon. Dimitri is busily looking over documents with Felix sitting in the chair across from him, his throat trying in vain attempts to get Felix to cough, when the servant first comes to announce that the Young Lord Gautier is back and at the stables.

Felix shoves the parchment down on Dimitri’s desk and tells him he’ll go greet him, lest Sylvain get distracted by one of the stablehands.

Sylvain, still in his riding clothes and looking far happier at being back than he had looked upon leaving, is in the grand entrance hall of the castle. He beams when he sees Felix, rushing over to go in for a hug. Felix’s first instinct is to shove his shoulder. Hard. 

“ _Felix_ ,” Sylvain whines. “I’ve been gone so long and you _hit me_ instead of a hug!”

Felix snorts, rolling his eyes. He turns on his heel, leading him down the winding castle halls towards Dimitri’s study. Sylvain, despite his whined whimpers about how much his feelings are hurt, follows.

When they’re alone, down one of the large corridors, Felix deigns to give him an explanation.“That was for saying you were going to give me a birthday kiss.”

Sylvain’s brows furrow for the briefest moment before his eyes widen, flashing with recognition. It takes that long for Felix to realise his mistake. Sylvain had forgotten, and here Felix was, reminding him. 

Felix’s shoulders tense as Sylvain’s lips quirk into a dangerous smirk. He sidesteps when Sylvain lunges.

“ _No_ ,” he states, scowling.

“It wasn’t just one kiss!” Sylvain exclaims. “It was twenty-four, for your twenty-fourth birthday!"

“Absolutely not.”

Sylvain huffs. He throws his arm around Felix’s shoulder, but makes no move to kiss his cheeks. Felix glares at him anyway, trying to throw him off, but Sylvain has always been taller, and heavier. He resigns himself to his fate, swallowing thickly, ignoring the tickle in his throat. He refuses to cough. It’s not worth it.

For his part, Sylvain seems content to just keep himself draped over Felix as they walk through the corridors of the castle. “Fine, fine. Ingrid won't complain when I give her hers."

"Yes, she will."

Sylvain sighs. "Yeah, you're right. Either way, I suppose I have to stop." He leans more of his weight against Felix, who tries again to shrug him off. "Besides," he drawls, tone turning sing-song, "I wouldn’t want to ruin anything that’s blossoming.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Sylvain tilts his head, still smirking, and _winks_. Felix’s mouth opens—to either yell or demand he explain himself—but before he can manage a word, he twists himself out of his grasp, shoulders shuddering as he coughs into his elbow. Sylvain stops short, his hand still resting on Felix’s back, and when Felix straightens, wiping at his mouth, there’s a trail of petals that fall from the fabric at his arm.

 _Fuck_ , Felix thinks. He had been doing so good today.

“Whoa, wait.”

Felix musters up the energy for a glare. Sylvain’s staring at the petals at their feet, disbelief evident on his face.

“What?”

“You’re still sick?”

“I told you before, it’s _annual_.”

“What?” Sylvain’s eyebrows furrow, lips twisting into a scowl. “Felix!”

“Why are you yelling at me?”

“You haven’t told Dimitri yet?” asks Sylvain, voice filled with what Felix feels is unwarranted anger. “Why the hell haven’t you told him?”

“Why would I?” Felix looks away, digging his heel into the carpet to crush the petals. “It doesn’t matter—”

“It does matter!” Sylvain protests. “Felix, he loves you!”

Felix snorts, turning and marching away from Sylvain. The King is waiting for them and Felix is not going to have this conversation with Sylvain. He only wishes Sylvain would let it go, but he’s not deterred, his longer legs making him catch up to Felix in an instant.

“He does! He loves you, and you love him!”

“I do not,” says Felix, though his lungs and throat get uncomfortably tight at the statement.

Sylvain growls a frustrated noise and grabs Felix’s shoulder. Felix rears up, ready to fight, his lips curling back in a snarl, but Sylvain’s jaw is set. He keeps his grip on Felix’s arms almost uncomfortably tight, enough that Felix couldn’t get out of his grasp without a fight.

They hardly ever fight like this. They bicker and Sylvain does everything to crawl under Felix’s skin, but now he looks serious. Actually angry, instead of just frustrated. Looking at Felix like _Felix_ had been purposely annoying him.

Felix juts his chin up, letting Sylvain know just how pissed he was about this situation without words.

“You love him, Felix.” Felix’s lips twist, but Sylvain tightens his grip. “You do, do not lie to me about that. You’re my best friend, I’d see right through it.”

Felix’s mouth opens. He can’t form words to deny that, because Sylvain is right. He settles for scowling and looking away. He can feel the heat curling across his cheeks, along his face and neck. “What’s your point, Sylvain? What does it matter?”

“What does it matter?” Sylvain gives a disbelieving laugh. “It’s everything! Why are you choosing to suffer for weeks every single year instead of just telling him how you feel?”

“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” he grinds out between his teeth.

“Yes, it does, and even if it didn’t, what about his feelings? Are you going to look me in the eye and tell me Dimitri doesn’t feel the same way?”

“How would _you_ know how he feels?”

“I’m not blind, Felix,” Sylvain states. His hands loosen, but he keeps his grip. The anger in his tone is gone, replaced by tiredness. “What do you two even talk about when you’re alone?”

“If you haven’t noticed, Sylvain, there’s an entire nation that needs to be repaired from a five year long war. We don’t have time for—”

He’s cut off by a sudden coughing fit. Sylvain releases him when Felix pushes at his chest. When his throat is clear, the petals turning to dust on the carpeted floor as Felix crushes them with his heel, he takes in a wheezing breath.

“Dimitri has his duties. He’s the king. I have my own as Duke Fraldarius and one of his advisors. I don’t—.” He makes a noise, frustrated with speaking these things aloud. He hates this situation. He wants to be back in Dimitri’s study, reading over the damned reports and records they had been reading all day instead of standing here in the corridor, talking to Sylvain about his _feelings_ out of everything. “I don’t get the pleasure to pick and choose like you do, Sylvain,” he settles on, voice flat.

The silence he is met with is too much. He brings his eyes back to Sylvain, who just stands there, inches from him. Sylvain stares at him for a long moment, expression unreadable. It grows unbearable and Felix looks away. Before he can start walking again, Sylvain grabs him, hand gentler than it had been moments before.

“What are you—?” He makes a strangled yelp when Sylvain plants an obnoxiously _wet_ kiss to his cheek. “ _Sylvain!_ ”

“Twenty-three to go,” Sylvain declares, his tone bright and cheery.

“Sylvain, don’t you—!”

“I was wondering where you two had gone,” comes a new voice, amusement plain in his tone.

Felix freezes, and Sylvain manages to get two more pecks against his cheeks before Felix throws a hand in his face and shoves. Dimitri stands at the end of the corridor, smiling as he looks between them.

“Do I. . . _want_ to know what’s happening?”

“Birthday kisses,” states Sylvain, as if he’s giving a report. He releases Felix and all but saunters to Dimitri, arms outstretched for a hug. “Belated, but deserved. You can get a kiss, too, but I don’t think you’ll want twenty-four.”

Dimitri laughs, but accepts the hug. Felix huffs as Sylvain opts to kiss the back of Dimitri’s hand instead of his cheek, going over the top in his dramatics of proclaiming how glad he is to be back in _His Majesty’s warm castle_ with Duke Fraldarius’ _warm welcome_ of smacking him in the shoulder upon being reunited.

Dimitri snorts a laugh at that. “Was it because you told him you wanted to give him twenty-four birthday kisses?”

“Perhaps.” Sylvain shrugs. “We have much to discuss over drinks, though.”

“Ah, of course.” Dimitri’s smile is wide, and Felix looks away from it, staring at the tapestry lining the wall. “Felix, would you like to join us?”

His gaze snaps over Dimitri. The king stands there, Sylvain’s arm still wrapped around his shoulder, his entire posture screaming hesitant, his eye _hopeful_. There’s a nervous colouring to his cheeks, one that makes Felix’s own face warm. 

Dimitri wants Felix to say yes. 

Sylvain’s words echo in his head. _He loves you and you love him_. His heart thumps against his ribs, throat tightening painfully with another spasm that promises more petals.

Felix wants to say yes. Of course he does. 

What he says instead is, “I’m busy,” and walks away, ignoring Sylvain’s call of his name. 

He keeps his arms crossed over his chest as he marches through the halls, heading to his chambers. He doesn’t pass any servants, thankfully. He already knows he intimidates most of them. He has no idea how bad his scowl and glare are, but figures they would go scattering if he crossed paths with any of the workers. 

Thankfully, since Felix is an adult, he does not slam the door to his chambers shut. He flicks the lock, tugs the tie out of his hair rather violently, and then flings his coat off. By the time he’s pacing the hearthrug, he’s down to his trousers and undershirt, trying to get the image of Sylvain and Dimitri sharing a bottle of wine while they chat out of his head.

It doesn’t work, largely due to the fact that he starts hacking petals out of his lungs. 

By the time he’s done retching, his lungs no longer feel seized. He sits on the ground at the foot of his bed, surrounded by enough petals to make a small mound. Most are tinted with his blood and saliva. Felix angily gathers them and throws them into the hearth. 

He reties his hair up, takes a long drink of water, and decides he’s going to go bathe when there’s knocking on his door. 

Felix’s face twists. He knows it’s Sylvain, coming to either yell at him or kiss him again. Felix wants neither. He throws the door open to tell Sylvain to fuck off but stops short when the person at the door isn’t his best friend.

Dimitri blinks in surprise at Felix’s violent wrenching, hand half-raised to knock again. “Ah—”

Felix wants to scream. He settles for making a strangled, angry noise, and whirls, marching deeper into his room. Dimitri hesitates for just a moment before following, closing the door gently behind him.

“Sylvain said you weren’t feeling well.”

He decides right then that Sylvain will be getting a birthday present of twenty-seven stab wounds to match his twenty-seven years on Sothis’ green earth.

“It’s nothing,” Felix spits.

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything—”

“If I _needed_ anything, I wouldn’t rely on the king to get it for me. I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

Dimitri’s brows furrow, lips twisting down just slightly. Felix looks away, going to the fire to stoke it, just so he doesn’t have to stare at Dimitri. It keeps his hands busy, which is a plus.

“I did not mean to imply you couldn’t care for yourself, Felix,” says Dimitri. “I apologise for any offensive I’ve caused.”

Felix snorts, whirling on him. “You’re apologising over nothing,” he states. “I’m fine.”

Dimitri is still looking at him in concern. Felix grinds his teeth before flicking his eyes away.

“It’s not a big deal,” he explains, keeping his voice as calm as he can. “I get a cough once a year in the spring and Sylvain thinks I'm dying."

“You get a yearly cough?” Dimitri asks.

“It’s nothing,” he manages. His throat is starting to itch again, the tightening feeling coming back tenfold. The next words he can barely force out, rasping in the air, “I get it for a few weeks. I’ll be fine.”

“Felix, I—”

Felix interrupts him, but not with words. He coughs, violently, into his palm, the few petals tearing themselves from his throat. Dimitri reaches out, as if to touch him, and Felix turns away, curling his hand into a fist to crush the petals before Dimitri can see them.

He notices the dust, anyway, when Felix unfurls his palm.

“Oh.”

Felix feels his face heat. He hates repeating himself, but he grits, “It’s nothing.”

“You have the Blooming Cough,” Dimitri murmurs, sounding astonished.  
“ _Don’t_ call it that,” Felix says, scowling. “I fucking hate that name for it.”

“You—. You say you’ve gotten this yearly? Isn’t there an easy cure?”

He scoffs, laughing in slight disbelief. “Yeah, okay, an easy cure. Sure.”

“Felix—.”

“I’m not going to act on them. It’s selfish.”

There’s a pause, silence between them. Felix can’t stand the way Dimitri’s looking at him, his eye bright in the dim candlelit chamber, earnest and blue.

“After everything,” Dimitri says, his voice low and gentle, “don’t you think you’re allowed to be selfish?”

Felix feels himself go red, heat bursting across his face and burning his ears. His mouth opens, and he makes a spluttered noise, before he remembers how to breathe. His lungs ache, tickling with the petals that are threatening to rupture again. He takes a steadying breath, ignoring the itch, and swallows thickly.

“I have duties,” he manages. His hands are trembling at his sides. He curls them into fists, looks away. “ _We_ have duties that are more important than a stupid cough that I get once a year. It doesn’t matter.”

“I think your feelings should matter to you,” says Dimitri. “I don’t see why you would choose to suffer. I am certain your duties can allow this.”

“They can’t.” Felix glares at him. “We have duties to Fódlan. After everything we’ve done to put you on the throne, you think I’m going to allow my emotions to throw that work away?”

Dimitri startles at that. “I don’t see what that—"

“It’s _nothing_ , Dimitri!” he shouts. He stops when Dimitri makes a surprised noise and takes a breath to calm himself. “I’m fine,” he says after a moment, his voice more level. 

He’s not fine. His throat is on fire. It’s never felt this awful before. He wonders if it’s because Dimitri is right here, _steps away_. Dimitri, within reach, looking at him with that damned look in his eye, as if he’s never been sadder.

Felix has no idea why Dimitri would be sad about this situation. It’s Felix’s choice. He gets to decide.

After a painful swallow and the silence growing too loud, Felix turns on his heels, going to his pitcher of water. He drains his glass in one go. When he turns back to face Dimitri, he’s looking at the ground, hands wringing nervously in front of him.

“Felix, I do not want to think of you suffering every spring,” he admits, voice soft.

Felix snorts.

Dimitri continues in that quiet tone, undeterred, “I am sure Annette—"

The mention of _Annette_ of all people throws Felix off. He startles, setting the glass down with far more force than necessary. The sound quiets Dimitri immediately.

“Annette?” Felix asks.

Dimitri blinks, lips parting. “Ah—yes?”

“What does _Annette_ have to do with this, Dimitri?” he demands, voice hitching.

Dimitri looks ready to answer, but Felix doesn’t hear him if he does. His lungs have had enough. The water had hardly soothed his throat. He doubles over with his newest coughing bout, his upper body convulsing.

_“Felix!”_

He manages to hear Dimitri’s worried voice, feel the hand on his shoulder that steadies him, but Felix doesn’t have the energy to shrug him off, too busy coughing petals that spill over his arm and down to the carpet. Felix curses everything from the goddess herself to the horse that had almost bucked him on his most recent trip as the petals fall from his mouth.

Somehow, someway, his ears pick up the sound of Dimitri’s soft gasp.

Felix’s breathing is ragged, every breath painful. He stands hunched, hands on his knees, the taste of chamomile on his tongue. Dimitri moves, his hand falling from Felix’s shoulder. Felix can see his boots, just on the other side of the petal pile. He doesn’t want to look up. His eyes burn with tears that he refuses to shed.

Dimitri’s voice is barely louder than a whisper. _”Oh.”_

“ _Don’t—_ ”

“It’s me.”

The admission is breathed softly, in disbelief. Felix looks up, glaring as best he can manage through his teary eyes. Dimitri is staring down at the floor, the petals, his cheeks coloured a light pink.

“It’s _me?_ ”

“It’s—.” Felix takes in a shaky breath. “It’s not.”

Dimitri isn’t listening. His lips are parted, his brows furrowed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise. . .”

Felix wipes at his eyes before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re _apologising?_ Again?”

“I should have realised,” Dimitri continues, his voice changing from wispy and awe-filled to determined. “I should have known.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Last year, in the cathedral at Garreg Mach. I had thought—but I didn’t think it was _me,_ especially back then. I wasn’t worthy of it then—though I am not certain I am worthy now, either.”

As Dimitri babbles, Felix feels his face alight with heat again. “You remember that?”

Dimitri pauses mid-sentence, turning to look at Felix. He reaches out, and Felix is too shocked to move as Dimitri takes his hands in his. “Of course. I thought you were getting sick. I didn’t know it was this.”

Felix’s mouth opens, but he can’t form words. It takes him an uncomfortable moment of silence to realise his throat no longer burns, his lungs no longer itch. _No,_ he tells himself. _Don’t you dare._

“How long?” Dimitri asks. “How long have you suffered because of my carelessness?”

“This isn’t—.” Felix decides to yank his hands away, but they betray him by just squeezing Dimitri’s fingers. “This isn’t your fault. It never has been.”

“Please,” Dimitri insists. “How long?”

“It usually lasts three weeks,” says Felix, looking away. The passionate emotion in Dimitri’s gaze is too much. “It only gets really bad on occasion.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Dimitri says, his own hands squeezing Felix’s before one realises his.

Felix is staring at the far wall near the bed and doesn’t notice Dimitri’s hand moving to his face before he’s cupping his cheek, thumb gently brushing under his eye. Felix makes a startled noise, turning to him, feeling his eyes widen.

Dimitri just waits, patiently, more patient than Felix could ever be, thumb stroking his face, his eye staring directly at Felix’s lips, flashing when his tongue darts out to wet them.

“The first time it happened was after the western rebellion,” he admits, voice quiet.

Dimitri freezes. His thumb stops mid-stroke, resting on the arc of his cheekbone. His shoulders tense, subtly, but Felix knows him well enough to see them. His lips part as his eye goes to Felix’s gaze.

“When we were fifteen?” His voice is quiet. “You’ve suffered this for nine years?”

Felix lets out a shaky exhale. He half expects to cough with it, but his throat isn’t seizing up. “I’ve told you already, Dimitri, it’s just a cough. It’s not suffering.”

“Felix, I—”

“We can’t do this,” Felix states. The tingling comes back, just barely making its way up his throat. “Dimitri, we _can’t_.” His voice is almost pleading. He knows he needs to step back, tell Dimitri to go. His hand grasps his tighter, the other coming up to grip his wrist, keeping his palm against his cheek.

“Why can’t we?” Dimitri questions. “Why should we let duty decide for us?”

“You need heirs, Dimitri. There needs to be a Blaiddyd on the throne.”

“Does there?” His thumb resumes its stroking. “Plenty of noble houses have adopted their heirs before.”

“That’s—.” Felix is leaning closer. Dimitri’s lips are slightly curling. “That’s _different_ ,” Felix says, petulant.

“Is it?”

“Stop asking stupid questions, Dimitri,” he growls.

Dimitri’s smile widens. “Apologies. I’ll ask one more, then.” His voice drops, going low and sultry. “After everything you’ve done, don’t you think you’re allowed to be selfish, Felix?”

Felix shivers, squeezing his eyes closed. “Dimitri—”

“I think you do.” Dimitri’s leaned so close his breath washes across Felix’s mouth, warm and smelling of wine. “I think you deserve it more than anyone else here, Felix.”

Another shiver trembles through him. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses. “Fuck, Dimitri, I—.”

His voice chokes on him, and he takes a shuddering breath. His nails bite into the skin of Dimitri’s wrist, but he doesn’t complain. He lets Felix take his time, patient as ever. Felix opens his eyes. Dimitri is right there, his eye meeting his stare readily. Felix isn’t prepared for the affection in it, the pure adoration curling his lips up into a tiny smile.

“I love you, Felix.”

It’s a whispered admission, but it’s loud in the quiet of the room. Felix’s heart pounds and he takes in another breath.

“Dimitri—”

“You need not say it back,” Dimitri tells him. “Not unless you wish to.”

Felix releases his wrist and hand, to grip at the front of his shirt. The noise Dimitri makes when Felix smashes their lips together in a violent disaster of a first kiss for them sends heat straight through them. Dimitri’s hands go to his waist, holding Felix closer, and he makes a noise into the kiss that Dimitri swallows up.

“Are you _stupid_?” asks Felix, between searing kisses. “Of course I love you, you idiot!”

“Fe— _mmph._ ”

Felix doesn’t give him a chance to answer, kissing him again and again. When he finally pulls back to catch his breath, he doesn’t go far, leaning down to press his forehead to Dimitri’s chest. It’s a struggle to calm his breathing, but he becomes aware that for the first time in years, it’s _spring_ and he’s breathing clearly. Dimitri’s hands are tight against his waist and they loosen, his arms wrapping around him. Felix relaxes his fingers from their grip in his shirt, resting his palms flat against his chest.

They are silent for a long moment. Felix can feel Dimitri’s heart thudding against his palm. The only noise is the fire crackling in the hearth and their panting.

Then, Dimitri laughs. A ragged, soft laugh that breaks the silence gently.

Felix pulls back, glaring at him. “What is so funny?”

“I think Sylvain might be mad I took your birthday kisses from him.”

Felix makes a noise of irritation, fingers bunching the fabric of Dimitri’s shirt once more to yank him down. “He can die mad, then.”

The sound of Dimitri’s next chuckle is quickly lost to a groan.

Felix is twenty-five when his next spring comes and with it, there are no flowers caught in his throat. 

He wakes to the first day of the Lone Tree Moon with a warm arm around his waist and the taste of chamomile petals far from his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wintersrose616) if you want!


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